The Only Pirate at the Party

ONE

THE CHILDHOOD/DEVELOPING TEENAGER PART

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.

—OSCAR WILDE

CROSS YOUR EYES AND

DOT YOUR TEES: A PIRATE’S INTRO

I didn’t learn to read until I was halfway through the first grade. Reading was work—hard work, and not the rewarding kind. For years, I struggled through reading at school, doing so slower and with longer vowels than anyone else. This befuddled my mother. I was a pretty sharp kid in all other aspects of life. I was a math whiz, a science pro, relatively talented with my violin, and I could repeat the facts I learned on Sesame Street from memory. Why couldn’t I read? At the end of second grade, I was still phonetically sounding out basketball, so she took me in for some testing. When the results came back, the doctor pulled my mom aside and told her I had a learning disability referred to as cross dominance. Cross what? I know, you’ve never heard of it before, either. But it’s a real thing. In case you don’t want to google it, I’ll give you the skinny.

Most people have a dominant half. Meaning, information goes in primarily through the dominant eye or ear, processes in the brain, and comes out instructing the dominant side of the body to perform a correlating motor function. For example, when someone sees a soccer ball information processes mostly through the dominant eye, and the brain tells the dominant leg to kick the ball. Oftentimes, people with cross dominance mix up these signals, and use alternating sides of the body instead of a consistently dominant one. Cross dominance also affects the way the brain processes cognitive functions. A normal person reads as follows: the dominant eye sees the word matriculation, information processes mostly on the dominant side of the brain, and the mouth says matriculation. In my case, the left eye sees the word matriculation, it goes into my brain where the signals get passed around and switched up, and it comes out my mouth bran muffin. I don’t know, ask my doctor. Basically, it’s a lot like dyslexia, only completely different. Anyway, with this new knowledge, it was recommended that I undergo eye therapy a few times a week to help my nondominant eye catch up, and maybe teach my brain how to process information in a more organized manner. I was also given a series of exercises to do at home during the week. This included the task of wearing an eye patch over my dominant eye for an hour every day. Oh, the agony!

Wearing the eye patch was awful. Until one day I came across a disposable pirate hat in my closet, and it clicked. I wasn’t a weird girl stuck in an eye patch, I was a pirate stuck in a weird suburban backyard. From that time forward I spent at least an hour every day turning the swing set into a giant pirate ship, where I played Cap’n Davy and made my sister and our friend Mary walk the plank. Arrr! Even after the mandatory eye patch time came to an end, my fascination with the swashbuckling riffraff remained. Pirates rarely shower, have a random and effortlessly cool sense of style, and if you turn a blind eye to all the plundering, they are really just in search of treasure. I can relate to all these things. More than anything, though, I have always admired the pirate attitude. Pirates don’t take orders or ask permission. They do what they want. Allow me to clarify. If your mom asks you to do the dishes, DO NOT pull out your pirate attitude. But if someone tells you you’re not good enough, says your dreams are too lofty, or claims there is no room in showbiz for a dancing violinist—well then, by all means, pull out your eye patch, my friend, and take to the high seas. (That’s my way of saying do it anyway.) The reason people said I would never succeed is the very reason I did succeed: because I am different. That’s not to say I’ve tried to stand out, but when given the choice between being a weird kid in an eye patch or a pirate, the answer was easy. I want to say it is still easy, but I can’t lie to you like that. Sometimes being the only pirate is hard. And that’s okay, too.

With the help of Cap’n Davy’s accessory, my reading improved over the years, but I still spell worse than the average bear. Anyone who follows me on social media knows this to be true. My fans are constantly screen-grabbing my spelling errors—it’s a little game they play. Luckily, my trusty spellcheck and an even trustier editor assure me I won’t embarrass myself in the pages you hold now. (My editor asked me to clarify that this refers only to spelling mistakes, and he cannot protect me from any other form of embarrassment in this book.) Po-tay-to, po-tah-to! Shall we get this party started?

A GIRL

IN CURLS

As a child, I had a big head, a tiny voice, and a total disregard for social cues. All young kids are oblivious at first—public tantrums and soiling one’s pants are somehow okay in infancy—but eventually most children start noticing and mimicking cultural norms. I, on the other hand, managed to glide through childhood without perceiving (or perhaps caring about) these accepted behaviors. To be clear, my mother tells me I stopped pooping my pants at a very early age, but she also told me not to use any form of the word poop in my book. Anyway, I just never seemed to care much about what other people were doing.

I was a natural-born drama queen, and my kindergarten classroom set the stage for one of my earliest impromptu performances. One morning as I was getting dressed for school I found myself digging through boxes of dress-up clothes instead of my dresser. And to think, all this time I’d been limiting the use of costumes to playdates and Halloween—what a waste!

Minutes later, I emerged from my room wearing a kimono, red sequined shoes, a single glove, and a curly brown wig. Had the wig been red I would have been overjoyed—Little Orphan Annie was one of my first idols—but this wig would do. It had short, uneven ringlets, and if I shifted my weight just so, I could make the frizzy curls dance around my face. The cute outfit my mother had purchased for the first day of school lay in a heap on my bedroom floor. When I announced to her that I was ready for school, she took one bemused look at me and did what any good mother would do—she handed me my lunch and drove me to Jefferson Elementary.

When I arrived, my class was already gathered for Circle Time, reading quietly on the opposite side of the room. To draw their attention I walked through the door, spread my arms wide, and struck the most dramatic pose I could think of. Tada! I said in a mouse-like voice as I hopped from one spindly leg to the other. The class erupted into giggles, and I felt like a champion. Mrs. Fowler wasted no time in sending for the principal—but only so she could showcase her slightly odd student.

Despite my larger-than-life theatrics, I was always quite small for my age. In the first grade, I compensated by becoming best friends with two giants named Krista and Naomi. Maybe their tall-girl instincts told them I needed looking after, or maybe I subconsciously gravitated to their protective body types; either way, we made a wicked team.

Here we are on a field trip to the petting zoo, Krista and Naomi mean muggin’ the camera in my defense.

On second thought, maybe it was our mutual love for saggy denim that brought us together.

Krista and Naomi’s parents were also best friends, so they were constantly doing things together outside of school. After a few months of playing with them at recess, the girls brought me into their inner circle of friendship by inviting me to Knott’s Berry Farm. When Naomi asked me if I wanted to go with her I was speechless. Going to Knott’s Berry Farm was considered a full-fledged vacation for my family. Apparently, to hers it was an average weekend activity, one to which she could invite friends no less!

When Naomi’s mom called that night I could hear my mom in the next room.

Hi Clair, I was just thinking we needed to invite Naomi over again soon.

There was a pause.

Oh, are you sure? Okay. My mom continued, Thank you, she is going to be so excited.

And just like that it was settled.

On the morning of our outing I slipped into my best saggy jeans and waited anxiously for my ride by the front door. As I sat looking out the window my mom watched from the kitchen.

Lindsey, are you excited to go to Knott’s Berry Farm? she asked.

Yes, I said smiling, eagerly looking for Naomi’s red SUV.

I want you to tell me about all the rides when you get back. Maybe another time we’ll go together.

Okay, I replied, my focus unwavering.

My mom, like most, wanted to give her kids everything and more. But she was also the kind of mom who never spent money she didn’t have. If we ran out of milk before the end of the month, we ate Cream of Wheat instead of cereal; and when we ate a lot of Cream of Wheat, we didn’t go places like the local Blockbuster, let alone Knott’s Berry Farm.

Hey Lindsey, look at me for a second.

Reluctantly, I turned toward my mom. She was smiling gently.

You know I love you, right?

Yep, I said quickly, but I was immediately distracted by the slow crunch of tires pulling into the driveway.

She’s here! I screamed, jumping up and running for the door.

All right, have fun! she yelled back, scrubbing a pan in the sink.

Soon after arriving at the amusement park, we realized I wasn’t tall enough for the most exciting rides. I frequently got left behind with Naomi’s younger brother, Troy. At first I was disappointed—how was I going to tell my mom about the rides if I couldn’t even get on them? But eventually Naomi’s mom started buying Troy and me special treats to keep us occupied. All I had to do was look at something for longer than six seconds and she would offer to buy it: cotton candy, churros, frozen lemonade, fry bread, and endless turns at the ring toss booth. The wonders of concession stand food were new to me. Usually, when we went out, my mom packed sandwiches that became soggy in her purse by lunchtime. Naomi’s mom had obviously forgotten to make lunches, which was okay, since she seemed to have an endless supply of five-dollar bills to fill their place.

At one point, Naomi’s mom suggested that the girls go on a smaller ride with Troy and me. Naomi looked back and forth between her mother and Krista before she replied, But those rides are boring. I waited for Naomi’s mom to pull her daughter aside to have a chat about being polite and, I don’t know, a good friend. Instead, she handed me another five-dollar bill and let the girls go on their way.

Before long I was stuffed, but the more I ate, the more I wanted. There was no telling when I would get another opportunity to have so much processed food and sugar, or win such ugly (but giant!) stuffed animals again. So I kept looking, and eating, and playing the ring toss. When I returned home at the end of the day I felt sick. But I was delighted by the hideous stuffed lizard under my arm. So what if I’d spent the entire day with a four-year-old boy?

Over time Krista and Naomi introduced me to other things: the Miss America Pageant, eating at restaurants for no particular reason, and the idea of getting paid for doing chores. They called that one allowance, and they were both shocked to hear I had never received one.

What do you mean you don’t get paid to clean your room?

I was also surprised to find out that a different tooth fairy visits rich people. One time Naomi received five dollars for a front tooth. One tooth! It wasn’t even that big. In fact, Naomi had tiny teeth—the kind of teeth that barely reached the cob when she ate corn. I, on the other hand, had beaver cleavers, and I was certain they were going to work in my favor. The next time I lost a tooth I asked Naomi if she would put it under her pillow, which she did, and I eagerly awaited my grand prize. Her fairy was going to be so impressed. The next day she returned with the tooth but no cash. Her fairy didn’t buy it. Disappointed, I put it under my pillow and awoke the next morning to find two shiny quarters in its place. I imagined my little fairy carrying those quarters through the night, one under each arm (which would have been much harder to fly with than a five-dollar bill), and I was grateful for her extra effort—even if the amount of money was a letdown. At breakfast that morning my mom handed me a bowl of Cream of Wheat and sat down at the table.

So, did the tooth fairy come last night? she asked.

I considered telling her about Naomi’s five dollars, but I was worried she might call the Tooth Fairy Office to complain, and what if my fairy got fired? I kept it to myself and answered, Yes, I got two quarters.

Two whole quarters? That must have been one big tooth!

Tell that to Naomi’s fairy, I thought. But the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated my fairy’s quarters. She wasn’t the richest, obviously, but she was definitely one of the strongest. I liked my little fairy, she did good.

MIND YOUR

OWN BUSINESS

Shortly after my eighth birthday, my dad was hired as a high school religion teacher in Mesa, Arizona. When the topic of our impending move was brought up, I think it worried my mom that I didn’t shed a single tear over the idea of saying good-bye to Krista and Naomi. I guess deep down I couldn’t relate that well to anyone who kept their toys in glass cases.

The day after we moved into our new home Dawnee Ray came to our door at 7:00 A.M., with bare feet and a wagon full of lemons. She was my height with tangled hair only a few shades darker than her olive skin.

Hi, I’m Dawnee. My mom told me to give these to you.

She pointed at the wagon of fruit behind her.

Thanks, I’m Lindsey.

She held out a thin, tan hand, Nice to meet you, Linseed.

Dawnee never called anything by its rightful name. A wheelbarrow was a wobbler, cookies were cooklets, and I was any number of names that started with the letter L. Over the course of our friendship, I was Lizard, Lindy Hop, Lindizzle, and Limesey Styling, to name a few. Her refusal to use correct terminology annoyed many of her siblings, but being friends with Dawnee was the best thing that ever happened to my imagination.

As it turned out, she was equally deprived in the allowance department. Instead of complaining, she convinced me that we should take moneymaking matters into our own hands. Our first attempt: the lemonade stand.

I never understood advertisements that drew attention to the lack of key ingredients: now with 30 percent less sugar. Why would anyone admit that? Whenever I tried to sneak food into my mom’s grocery cart I was careful to avoid those kinds of treats—I was no fool. So when Dawnee and I decided to go into the lemonade stand business, we took a different approach. We squeezed forty-six lemons, added the magic ingredient with a generous hand, and made a poster that read: LEMONADE, NOW WITH 30% MORE SUGAR! Then we took a walk down to the end of our street and set up shop across from the cornfields, where approximately three cars passed every hour. Yes, I said passed. We sat there, sipping on lemon syrup and talking about how delicious it was until we were too sick to sit up straight.

As we were packing up, Dawnee’s mom drove down the street and cheerfully asked if we were still in business. She handed us a dime, and I handed her a tall glass of warm lemonade. We waited, proudly watching our only customer of the day take a big sip. She gently lowered her cup and asked us how much sugar we used. From the moment we answered onward, Dawnee and I were only allowed to make lemonade under supervision.

Another one of our failed moneymakers was Movie Night. We made cookies and popcorn, and created personalized placemats. For only two dollars, all three could be yours! Our older sisters always had babysitting money, but they were never going to give it to us. One Saturday before a viewing of The Shaggy D.A., Dawnee’s older sister Sherri walked up to our concession stand at the kitchen counter. She placed her hands on the granite, cocked her hip to the side, and examined our goods.

How much for one of those burnt cookies?

Dawnee looked hurt. They’re not burnt—

Fifty cents, I cut in before the argument escalated. I was willing to take anything.

Too much, Sherri said.

And with that she walked to the cupboard, grabbed a bag of popcorn, and put it in the microwave herself. I wanted to call attention to the injustice, but Dawnee turned the other cheek. It won’t taste as good as ours. We added a secret ingredient, she said proudly.

Sherri grinned. I’m not sure if extra butter counts as a secret, but it could certainly pass for disgusting.

Our only interested buyers ended up being my younger sister Brooke and Dawnee’s younger sister Heidi, and of course they didn’t have any money. Eventually, we ended up paying them a quarter each to clean up the kitchen, which they gave back a few minutes later in exchange for a small bag of popcorn and half a cookie. We threw in their placemats for free since we had already decorated them.

A few months later, my school started their annual candy bar fund-raiser. After the motivational speech, involving a slideshow of outrageous prizes, I was determined to win the mini-fridge and a bike. According to the motivational sales guy, It would only take twenty thousand orders, or something like that. Notwithstanding my zealous attitude, I returned my catalogue the next week with two orders—one from Mrs. Boyle down the street, and the other from Sherri Ray. It turns out she did have a soft heart; it was simply hidden beneath a mound of overpriced holiday chocolate.

The Ready-To-Work Girls was a third Lindsey-Dawnee enterprise that was eventually quite a success. We made business cards and distributed them throughout the neighborhood, advertising our services for basically anything. WE’LL DO YOUR JOB FOR YOUR PRICE. Sometimes we got lucky and a generous benefactor would overpay us, but more often than not, we got royally ripped off.

One of our most reliable customers was Mr. Hult. He was a portly man, to put it kindly, and every day he wore a starched button-up. When we first advertised our services at his door, he handed us five shirts, a can of starch, and offered us a dollar for every one we ironed. At first this seemed like a great deal—until we tried ironing one of his shirts and realized it was a time-consuming and sweat-producing chore. Did I mention Mr. Hult was a size infinity? I mean, the guy was short, but the more I ironed his shirts the more I was convinced I could use them as bedsheets. Every time we returned his shirts he handed us five more, and my heart sank.